


Under the upper hand

by DoctorFatCat



Category: Monsta X (Band)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, M/M, Overdosing, Prostitution, Songfic, Starvation, dark themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-15
Updated: 2018-01-15
Packaged: 2019-03-05 02:23:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13378119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoctorFatCat/pseuds/DoctorFatCat
Summary: The worst things in life come free to us.





	Under the upper hand

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on The A Team by Ed Sheeran, very obviously. I'm sorry for the angst but I needed this.  
> Be safe, don't read if any of this triggers you.

He opens his eyes and automatically squints at the sunlight in his eyes. The dried up makeup makes his eyelids stick together a bit, like a dark and old glue. He rubs his eyes with the back of his hands and looks around. He barely remembers falling asleep in this bench.

It’s not like it matters.

He sits up and gathers his blanket around himself. Old and thick. The hoodie that was pulled over his head slips and the cold wind blows against his nape. He sighs.

The boy stands up and makes sure he wasn’t robbed in his sleep again by patting his pockets. Everything seems to be there. He doesn’t have anything valuable on him anyways.

He drags himself around the park, pulling his hood back up, knowing he must look like trash to the people around. Bleached white frizzy hair with dark roots showing, pale face with sunken cheeks and red eyes, black and runny eye makeup and tight ripped clothes, which he’s obviously been wearing for days. It’s not very uncommon though. Not here.

The trees are all dry and cold. It’s a cold winter, snow everywhere. He raises his hand to brush his long fingers over the dried wood of a lower branch. A few seconds trying to pretend he’s just visiting. That he didn’t spend the night in the park, sleeping on the bench. He looks at the sky like there might be an answer to his problems, even though there isn’t.

The routine starts again. Everyday the same thing, over and over again. He couldn’t go home last night, no. He couldn’t go home and let his landlord find him. He’d ask for money, but he needed the money for something else.

With the blanket in hands he walks up the hill, standing there with a dumb drugged up smile in his lips. He doesn’t know why he’s smiling. He might still be high on the beat. He knows he isn’t.

Nevertheless the man opens his arms and receives the afternoon sunlight on his frail body. His palms up and open to feel, like the warmth could comfort him.

Eventually the smile falls from his face and he turns to walk away. He’s going to the usual spot.

During daytime he sells magazines. He’s not sure what they’re about. Not really. The man’s never been curious enough to look at them. But he stands there trying to convince people to buy them with a fake smile and shaky hands.

He stands there till the night falls again. The man eventually gives up on standing, and sits there with the blanket over his criss crossed legs with the magazines thrown on his lap. He offers it to the people passing. Most don’t glance at him twice.

He sells two. Uses the money to buy coffee. It’s gonna be his only meal today.

On his way home he sees a lady selling flowers. It’s dark, and they’re pretty, and despite the ugly look she shoots him, he bends down to brush his fingers over the petals. He’s never been given flowers.

He stands by a light pole, holding the half empty paper cup with cheap coffee in it and the comforter over a shoulder, watching the cars pass. He knows it’s not late enough to start. So he sits around. Walks around.

The man waits, and waits. He watches as the people walk by, don’t spare him a glance. He’s nothing. If he was once someone then he isn’t anymore and he knows that.

So he can’t help but cry. He can cry everyday all day and a difference it won’t make, but it won’t stop his eyes from watering up and the tears from running down his face, smudging his makeup even more. He tries to pretend he isn’t crying. Tries to pull the hood tighter around himself and not wipe his eyes. No one cares, but he still tries.

He doesn’t want to think about what he has to do later on. Doesn’t wanna think about it and doesn’t wanna do it, but he has to.

He needs the money.

He hasn’t eaten in days.

He’s not gonna buy any food.

He pushes himself from the ground and tries to pretend like he was never there.

Goes down the stairs, towards the subway, so he can use the public restroom. He gets in there, shoves away his hoodie and starts wiping the runny makeup from his cheeks and applying more mascara to his eyeslashes. He washes his hands with just water and uses it to try and quiet down his hair. Make it seem like he’s taken a shower even if they won’t care about that.

He takes his things and walks out, leaving his comforter shoved in it’s usual hiding place.

He has a spot. He wishes he didn’t, but he does. And it doesn’t take long for someone to pull up and ask the usual. He answers the usual, and soon he’s in the car with the unknown man.

He takes him to a fancy hotel. It’s ridiculous, really. He’s doing it to show off. He can do anything with money. He can have _him_ with the money.

So when undressing the man, he takes out the money from his front pocket and puts it in his own pocket before continuing.

It’s disgusting. He feels repulsed by himself. He’s being gripped and shoved and fucked and _used._ And by the end of it all, when the man’s asleep by his side, he cries again.

He gets out of there as soon as he can. He has places to go and the money already on him. So on his way there he grabs his comforter again.

As he gets _there,_ hands shaking and all his money in hand, he doesn’t look the guy on the face. He asks for it, hands him the money, and gets the beat.

He walks away with the little plastic bag weighting like a thousand pounds in his pocket. He walks home. It’s late and his landlord won’t be awake. He hopes.

Opens the door with shaky hands, trying to focus but his vision is foggy. He closes the door behind him but forgets to lock it.

The man sits on the mattress on the floor and grabs his pipe. Nothing really matters. He’s been living this life since he can remember.

In a pipe he flies to the motherland.

He closes his eyes and hopes for a better life, body growing lighter and vision blurring again. The beat doesn’t last long, and neither does it’s effect.

But soon his stomach starts to hurt and his head aches. He falls back onto the mattress and stares at the ceiling. His breath caughts and he tries to breath in, but nothing happens. He tries to grip onto anything, stand up, scream for help, the pain unbearable, the agony consuming him like it's lasting forever. His heads feels as if it’s exploding and he can’t barely control his movements anymore. He tries to throw up, but he hasn’t eaten in days.

Eventually it all stops.

A few hours later his landlord knocks on the door, only to find it open. The man calls for him, and walks in after not receiving an answer, and is met with the cold body on in the middle of the living room, thrown on the mattress, eyes wide open and makeup smudged like he had spent his last minutes crying.

The man falls to his knees and tries to take it all in, and his eyes water as he covers his mouth with his hand.

It's too cold outside for angels to fly.

**Author's Note:**

> Here's my [twitter](https://twitter.com/DoctorFatCat) or [curious cat](https://curiouscat.me/DoctorFatCat) in case someone wants to hit me up  
> Thank you for reading and feedback is very appreciated.


End file.
